And that, truly, is my favorite thing: that the same God who sets the wild deer on the crag says to you, “Here. Walk here. I made your feet for this.” For the leader of the choir. On stringed instruments. —Adapted from Habakkuk 3:19
For a long time, I imagined the “high places” as mountaintops—panoramic, sunlit, victorious. The kind of high place you pose on after the climb. But life has taught me otherwise. The high places are not scenic overlooks. They are the narrow, wind-scraped ridges where one misstep means falling. They are the altitudes of grief, of uncertainty, of responsibility. The places where the air is thin and every breath requires effort. pies de ciervas en los lugares altos - fav
The high places are not punishment. They are training grounds for grace. On flat ground, anyone can walk. But on the heights? Only those who have learned to trust their strange, split-footed design—vulnerable yet sure, fragile yet perfectly fitted to the rock. And that, truly, is my favorite thing: that